


The Cards Are Red

by OmegaWolfy



Category: Homestuck
Genre: AU, F/M, I'm Sorry, Mentions of Sex, One-Shot, idk - Freeform, implied sex, this isn't the smut it was meant to be???, very very late request thingy, what are tags
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-22
Updated: 2016-11-22
Packaged: 2018-09-01 10:03:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,631
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8620243
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OmegaWolfy/pseuds/OmegaWolfy
Summary: Diamonds may make friends quickly, but the cards are not as pale as they seem.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [BardsAmbrosia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BardsAmbrosia/gifts).



    He's one of four odd mysterious phenomena of people who are often in the bar. Smoke fills the place to the brim and clouds the building. No one seems to care. If they do, they don't say anything. The wallpaper has long since tarnished and is peeling from the walls. No one has made any attempts to fix it in years. Doesn't seem like anyone will in the near future either.

    He is also the only one of the four who holds a cancerous stick between his fingers, they all play a dangerous game of poker. Money, hats, and even what looks like a handgun are on the table. He waves a hand, none of the other bartenders or wait staff make any movement from their positions. Instead, busy themselves while they all act as though they didn't see the gesture. Everyone saw the gesture. It was dangerous to ignore.

   Now, you move forward. A few slow steps and all the other employees seem to breathe a sigh of relief. Only waiting long enough to see if someone else would do the job. You, on the other hand. You know they tip well when they are happy. If you mess up, there would be one less person to upset them.

   To say it's a bad part of town is an understatement. Not even a week prior, a couple was killed a block from the bar's entrance. Police said it was hit and run, blunt force trauma knocked the people out. You'd like to see the kind of car that can put thirty bullet holes in a man's chest. No investigation, no questions. Life goes on.

    "What can I get you?" Three of them are hunched over, elbows on the table and all of them seem to be mulling over whatever cards they have in their hands. The fourth, he got your attention. He snuffs out his cigarette on the tabletop, burning yet another slight intent into the old wooden surface. They don't look up, but one draws you close, pulling you to sit on to his lap. His breath still smells of smoke, but so does the whole place. It's not uncommon anyways.

    "A second opinion."

    "Droog," Another pipes up, he sounds irritated. "You've been making us wait for five minutes, you know if you have good cards or not, so play 'em."

    Droog, apparently, is who has his arm wrapped around your waist. Messing with the hem of your uniform shirt. His other hand has a gun to the small of your back.

    "You play?" He asks as though he were ordering another shot of whiskey, or rum, or whatever it was that night.

    Numbly you shake your head no. The barrel didn't seem so warm as the pressure lessened. "Good," His breath sends goosebumps over your skin, and he picks his five card hand back up from the table. "What do you think of this hand then?" Diamonds. They must have been playing ace high because it was tucked behind the king. It was the best hand in the damn game.

    "I don't think a pair of threes will get you far." The gun seems to disappear, and his colleagues are chuckling. He releases you to fetch them some drinks, you send a different waitress, not wanting the wrath of Droog's buddies to fall onto you for lying.

    They don't leave until close. He doesn't leave without finding you. It's not exactly what you were expecting, to be searched out by the tall semi lanky man. It's obvious he is dangerous. Considering he had you at point blank range not a few hours earlier, but he doesn't seem to hold much of a warning to the danger he is capable of. Maybe the partial scowl and somewhat narrowed eyes is a clue, but you look past this.

    "That was a lucky hand earlier," you say to which he doesn't react much towards the conversation starter. Or really avoider. The suit he is wearing doesn't fit with the atmosphere. He seems out of place with the cloudy beer glasses and chipped vinyl floors. The ripped bar stool doesn't appear worthy of him to sit upon, but he doesn't seem bothered by it.

    "You didn't come back with the drinks." The accusation was true.

    "Something else came up." You busy yourself and pretend to actually try to make a glass shine. But that feat would probably take hours, not the few minutes left in your shift. A slight shrug of your shoulders carries off a stiffness to the motion, instead of trying to appear unbothered by his presence.

    Even if he didn't come across as dangerous, there was an air to him that you wouldn't want him upset. Somehow you managed to do just that. "Punch out."

    "My shift isn't over."

    "It is now," there is a steel like quality to his voice, and slowly the wash rag is hung back over the bar sink faucet, and the glass dunked back into the water.

   "I'll go and get my coat." The words are soft, and you quickly walk away. May as well go tell the boss he might want to prepare another HELP WANTED ad.

 

    Not five minutes later, you're being escorted into a dark car, Droog holds the door open, and climbs in behind you. It wasn't the passenger seat, the child lock was on. In front are two of his companions, they are bickering about something or another. To your other side, a shorter man looks at you a moment, before the car door slams and his attention falls out the tinted windows.

    Seriously, why the hell did they bother coming to a run down part of town such as this?

    "Took you long enough." It was the same man who had been complaining earlier about Droog playing his cards. He glances in the rear view mirror, turning it so he can see you a little better in the dimming cabin lights. "See you brought the lying bitch with you, too."

    "She got me a lot of money tonight," There is a smugness in the air as again you find yourself being held closer to the man. "I figured I ought to thank her a bit."

   Suddenly, it seemed like the chances of death seemed a little slimmer. But not enough. The car pulls away from the establishment, tires rolling, and don't seem to make a sound, or even really bump around on the road covered in potholes. This car was probably more than the yearly salary of every worker back at the bar combined. Maybe even the owner. Now that you think of it, these guys probably help keep the place afloat. In which keeps you in the job. You won't mention these thoughts.

    Bickering, name-calling, and hands which are a lot too frisky fill the car ride, and you're hardly aware of the fact no one is wearing a seat belt, minus the little guy to your left. But that is mostly unnoticed as there is more struggle to keep drifting hands off of your body. It's unnaturally quiet, and the one time you nearly snapped at him, you reminded yourself of the gun safely tucked away somewhere in his suit. Plus the fact he probably got another weapon within the loot on the table. If he hadn't used that as a means of a bet later on in the night, anyways.

    The little guy - someone called him clubs - when he gets out, is dropped off at an apartment first. The big one in front follows but walks to the next building down the block. All of them appear to be low maintenance.

    It's no surprise when the car stops again, "See you next time, Spades." Droog says, and you seem to realize something as he gets out, and holds a hand to assist you from the car.

    "You all have nicknames after the suits of cards?"

    "That's obvious enough." The car rolls away, you're alone with a man who could and maybe even would kill you. The back of that car suddenly seemed a lot more comfortable.

    "Come," He holds an arm out for you, and it reminds you of the people dressed much like himself in cheesy soaps which play on the television over the weekends. The cheesy, yet incredibly catchy soaps, and you sure as hell hope this doesn't turn out to be like one. Rich man, actually isn't rich, just makes everyone think so, so they like him. That's an incredibly common role to play in those scripts.

    Just hope they don't write you off in the same episode you appear. Wait, what does this have to do with soaps?

    There is no elevator inside, and you could have sworn you saw a rat scurrying around. That could have just been your imagination though. The building had people - none of them anywhere like Droog though, and you wonder offhandedly if he is the heart or diamond of their group. His hand of cards suggests Diamond, and it fits. He's classy. Almost too much so. It's almost as though he were raised by an incredibly wealthy family. You can see it too, him living in these conditions with his buddies out of spite towards the higher people. Or maybe not. Maybe they just prioritize their image over anything else.

    "You're spacing out. Not very polite thing of a lady to do." Well shit, would this anger the man? You wondered what would make him pop lead through your skull. Then you wondered if he had lead bullets or something else. Then decided you really didn't want to find out. 

    "Want the truth or the watered down version anyone could give you?"

    "How about both, in that order." He seems mildly amused, and you notice he has pulled a key from his pocket, and has stopped to turn by a door painted much unlike the other doors. It's white, and the handle looks like it could be gold. He turns the lock, opens the door partway, and there is a stopper in the way. While he pulls out a knife, you start with your explanation.

    "I'm wondering how you and your friends could live in a place like this. Doesn't seem very reliable. Plus the fact I'm not dead in a ditch somewhere is almost shocking." He gives a hum as he closes the door over the knife, there is a scraping of metal on metal, and when he opens the door again the stopper has been lifted just out of range to keep the door from becoming stuck again. Well shit, you were going to start actually locking the doors at night.

    "And the watered down version." Droog opens the door wider, sweeping a hand to allow you in. His tone holds no question. More so prompting you to finish.

    "I'm just absolutely grateful towards you for taking me all this way to thank me, I just can't help but wonder what this offer may be." There is a fake, sickly sweet tone of voice as you enter the apartment. The inside is like the door. Nothing like the building otherwise. It's clean - well slightly yellow from what looks like years of smoke being inside, but clean none the less. Cleaner than what the mental images you had were, at least. There is an approving nod, and Droog seems to regard your reactions.

    "Rent is cheap, and the landlord doesn't care what happens as long as the police don't come knocking." He shrugs, and it's smart. The people  here must know not to mess with him. Everything in the apartment makes it look like this should be some upstate place with floor to ceiling windows. You're half expecting a maid to waltz through with a frilly maids outfit, and feather duster that doesn't actually need to be used.

    Instead, there was boarded up windows keeping the street lamps from casting in the old yellow light, and you try to ignore what looks like a pile of various hats and weapons. All the gats matched identical to the one droog was taking off, except the others were in some ways ruined. And was that a bloody shirt thrown over a chair - you jump at the contact of a hand on your shoulder before exhaling softly.  He is close enough now to smell the cheap liquor from earlier, as his own breath slides past your ear. 

    "Let's get on with my gratitude for that little farce in the card game." once more, much like in the car ride, his hands dip dangerously low, and if you weren't a single woman, the touch may have mattered more. 

    "What have you got in mind?" The words drift past semi soft lips easily enough, enticing a slight hum from your captor. His hands slide the light coat from your shoulders, the one you almost didn't retrieve earlier, and it falls to the floor to be momentarily forgotten. His own lips find purchase somewhere on your neck, and your hands move back into his hair, knocking his hat to the floor, which is kicked away. Who cares about the easy to predict soap operas. It has been way too long since you've been able to relieve any sort of stress. Hell, it might not be so bad to end up in a ditch after all. Preferably after going a round with Droog. Could it be considered adultery if you didn't know his marital status? Oh well, that didn't matter any longer as your shirt was slipped up,  and his own suit jacket joined your own less fancy clothing.   
  
   With a grin, you momentarily tightened his tie making Droog snort softly before you slipped it loose from around his neck. By now there was a couch nearby, and since you didn't know the floor layout of the place, that seemed might good enough for the time being.    
  
    You had to admit, he was mighty convincing without saying much. Maybe it was the gun he could still have on him. Or maybe the knife, although you found out Slick was much more likely to stab you on a murmur which came from Droog.   
  
    Before long there was a trail of clothing, sloppy noises, and even some disapproving neighbors. However, when someone knocked on the walls or ceiling, they were paid no mind, and soon gave up.   
  
  
  
    The occurrences became more often. Helping out with a card game, well, more so bluffing by telling the truth or lying. Droog's buddies could never tell with you. Apparently you had a mighty good poker face.   
  
   When ever he was satisfied with your dealings at the end of the night, Droog would drag you back to his own place. (To the disappointment of his friends. Although they never voiced more than an annoyed grunt or exasperated sigh.) They did however drop the two of you off earlier though if things got too heated in the back seat. Apparently Slick wasn't against having some knife holes in the seats but he did not want any sex smell in his car.    
  
    Eventually Droog just pretty much let you stay with him. You didn't know what he and his friends did, but cleaned him up when he (or they) came back beat up, or covered in blood. Most of the time it wasn't their own thankfully.   
  
    Quitting your old job was really almost as much stress relief as spending a night with Diamond. It was odd really - how they all had a suit which seemed to fit them perfectly. And not the tailor made clothing, but the cards. In any case there wasn't a snowball’s chance in hell it could have been so predictably unpredictable. Or maybe there was. Either way somehow a snow ball ended up in hell.

**Author's Note:**

> Probs failed. Badly. OH WELL. Sorry this is so late, I might do some of the others inquired about like... december of last year... but me is not sure. I'm hoping this was at least somewhat enjoyable.  
> I write these notes before I write the stories.  
> I don't edit or proof. Not sorry for that bit.
> 
> (*sobs* what even is this?)


End file.
